His Greatest Mystery
by HLJ137
Summary: Sherlock Holmes hates mysteries he cannot solve, but he still has no answer to the greatest mystery in his own life: Joan Watson. Sherlock and Joan each ruminate over their feelings for each other, attempting to define what they mean to each other and what they both want from each other. Total Joanlock :)
1. His Greatest Mystery

When Sherlock Holmes is confronted with a mystery, it haunts his every conscious thought until he solves it. It's what makes him great. This rather unique ability to apply himself completely and fully to a case and to solve the mysteries that no one else can is perhaps the only thing about himself of which he is truly proud.

So, it follows from this aspect of his personality that nothing frustrates and consumes him more than a mystery he cannot solve. Questions he cannot answer. Irregularities that he can't explain. These are the things that become his obsessions, the things he never stops thinking about and mulling over until he has his answers.

However, there is one mystery that he has spent years trying to solve, and yet he still has not reached a conclusion. There is one question for which he has no answer. One irregularity which he cannot explain.

And that is Joan Watson.

More specifically, the mystery is the effects that Joan Watson has had on Sherlock himself. He recalls what he said to her all those years ago: _"I am... better with you, Watson. I am sharper, I am more focused. Difficult to say why exactly. Perhaps in time I'll solve that as well."_

However, years have passed and much has happened between the two of them, and Sherlock has still yet to figure out exactly why he is better with her. He has yet to figure out what it is that she means to him. Or what he means to her. He suspects the answer to his mystery lies somewhere in the definition of exactly what she means to him. If he can define that, he tells himself, maybe then he can explain to himself why it is that he really is better with her.

So what is Joan Watson to Sherlock Holmes? A partner? A friend? A companion? A meaningful connection?

If Sherlock is honest with himself, the last is the most likely.

Is she his partner? Partners come and go. Kitty was his partner for a time, but Sherlock never felt bound to her. Again he is reminded of his words to Watson upon his return to New York: _"You and I are bound, somehow."_ Sherlock has never felt bound to any of his previous professional partners in the same way he feels bound to Joan Watson. Therefore, "partner" feels like a wholly inadequate label for her. She must be more than merely his partner.

What about a friend? Sherlock considers Alfredo, and even Detective Bell and Captain Gregson, his friends. However, none of them have profoundly impacted Sherlock's life in the way that Joan Watson has. Therefore, Sherlock surmises, the logical conclusion is that Joan Watson must be more than just his friend

As for a companion, Sherlock must admit to himself that he hasn't ever had many of those. But it just doesn't feel adequate to describe Watson as his companion. That feels to much like calling her his sober companion, which she ceased to be long before now. Nor is she just a roommate to him. Sherlock is forced to admit that their relationship has gone far beyond mere companionship.

So, that leaves the last label.

But. The last one scares him the most.

Joan Watson once told Sherlock that he was in fact capable of making meaningful connections, it just frightens him. She was right. It does frighten him.

He had told Watson that in his life he had only ever made one meaningful connection. That was Irene Adler. It is true that Irene had been his only meaningful connection, and he had loved Irene with every fiber of his being. After all that he had been through with Irene, he had closed himself off to the possibility of making such a connection again, and he thought it impossible that he would ever love another person. _Post-love_ , that's what Sherlock believed himself to be. Scarred irreparably, never to love again.

Sherlock Holmes is post-love.

Isn't he?

As loathe as he was to admit it to himself, calling Joan Watson anything other than a meaningful connection seemed inadequate. There was simply no other way to explain why he was so much _better_ with her than he was without her. No other way to explain why he felt compelled to return to New York and repair his relationship with her. No other way to explain the why his heart dropped every time she was upset, or to explain the rage and desperation that had filled him when she had been kidnapped. No other way to explain why she was such an important part of his life, and why he felt bound to her somehow.

Although it was awfully unnerving to admit it, Sherlock felt that he must have formed a meaningful connection with Joan Watson. How else could he explain the multitude of wonderful things he thought about her? Sherlock thought of all the words he had used to describe Joan Watson over the years. _Exceptional. Interesting. Exquisite. Amazing. Inspiring._ She truly was all of those and more, he thought.

But if Sherlock had finally found another person with whom he had a meaningful connection... For him that was tantamount to admitting he was in love. And that was impossible.

Sherlock Holmes does not love Joan Watson.

Does he?

These are the questions that keep Sherlock up at night. The questions that run through his mind every time he looks at Watson when she is engrossed in her work and doesn't notice his stare. The questions that distract him from his cases at inopportune moments, when his brain decides to remind him of Watson's face when she's concentrating or her smile when she discovers a breakthrough in a case. These are the questions that make him want to tear his heart out so that he stops _feeling_ so much.

Sherlock Holmes simply cannot stop thinking about Joan Watson. And when he thinks about her, he has so many questions he cannot answer. He wonders more than he can handle. He _feels_ more than he can take. He craves anwers more than he can explain.

Perhaps the answer is simple. After all, the simplest answer is usually the right one. Perhaps Joan Watson flipped his world upside down. Perhaps she changed everything he thought he knew about himself. Perhaps, despite everything Sherlock has been through and despite every barrier he put up, he is no longer post-love.

Maybe someday, when he can no longer stand the questions and uncertainties that plague his thoughts, he will face his fears, confront his feelings, and find out exactly what Joan Watson means to him.

Or maybe he will never know.

After all, Joan Watson is Sherlock Holmes' greatest mystery.

* * *

As always, thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this! Of course, I'd love to hear from you guys! Comments are very much appreciated!


	2. Her Greatest Weakness

Hey guys! When I first published this story, I intended it to be a quick one-shot, but this chapter just kind of wrote itself, so I had to add it :) I'm changing the status of this to in progress because I might add more if you guys like it. Thanks for reading and enjoy!

* * *

Joan watched Sherlock as he practiced with the single stick; he was shirtless, glistening with sweat, and as of yet unaware of her presence. She figured she only had a few seconds to watch before be felt her eyes on him and turned around.

Joan admired the way he put his complete and total effort into his practice with the stick. She had always marveled at the way he gave everything he had to each and every thing he put his mind to, no matter how large or how inconsequential it may be. It was just one of the things she loved about him.

 _No_ , she corrected herself, one of the things she _admired_ about him. Admired. That's all.

Joan Watson did not love Sherlock Holmes.

She would not let herself.

Joan knew better than to let herself explore the depths of how she really felt about her partner. Doing so only led to frustration. It was impossible to define what she felt for him. She had never had such intense feelings about someone the way she did for Sherlock, but she refused to put a name to those feelings. She feared what she would find if she truly took a look at herself, and besides, what good would that do?

In the midst of their strange relationship, Joan knew she had to be strong. She could never fall in love with Sherlock. She knew how he felt about love. _Romantic love is a delusion_ , he had told her once. _A hedge against the terror of mortality._ Sherlock did not believe in love, hence would never return it if bestowed upon him by someone else. So, Joan thought, she would never let herself fall for him.

And yet.

Could Sherlock love another person? He had fallen in love with Irene. Despite how Sherlock may feel about that relationship now, Joan could tell that at the time, he really had loved Irene. But now? Sherlock had told her he would never love again. _Post-love_ , was what he believed himself to be. He would never let himself love again, so to love him would simply lead to heartache.

And yet.

Joan could not completely deny what she felt for him. She was constantly pulled in by his gravity, always orbiting him, forever bound to him somehow.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't like other men. He was somehow more. Whenever Joan went on a date, she was inevitably disappointed, because compared to Sherlock, everyone else was boring and drab. _I have more interesting conversations at home_ , she had found herself thinking on more than one of her dates. It was becoming a problem, so she had simply stepped going on dates. In her mind, no one would ever compare to Sherlock.

Joan thought about all the things Sherlock was to her. She had to admit that he was more than just her partner; he was her friend. Her closest friend. He was her roommate, and though he drove her absolutely crazy at times, she found she never wanted to live with anyone else.

He was the person who knew more about her than anyone else, and accepted every part of her without question. He was the only person who had promised never to let any harm come to her, and she trusted him with her life.

He was the only one who never looked at her with pity, silently questioning why she gave up her career as a surgeon to be a sober companion and eventually a police consultant. Everyone else in her life thought she was crazy for giving up that life, and whether they said so or not, Joan could see the judgment in their eyes. It always made her feel as if to them she was only a piece of her former self. But not Sherlock. Sherlock saw the potential she had that no one else saw, and it made her feel whole again. Made her feel like she mattered, like she was accepted for who she was now, no questions asked.

She had changed Sherlock's life, he had told her so. But what she had not told him was that he had changed her, too. She wasn't the same woman who had walked through his door for the first time all those years ago. What was different about her?

The plain and simple answer was _him._

But Joan Watson did not love Sherlock Holmes.

She wouldn't let herself.

She couldn't.

The last thing Joan wanted was to lose him, and she feared that if she ever let herself fall for him, she would eventually scare him away. She was sure he could never feel the same way, could never return her affection.

Could he?

Joan shook her head to clear it. She couldn't keep thinking this way. Of course he couldn't. Or wouldn't. Sherlock would never let himself love anyone, so in return Joan could not let herself love him. That's how it had to be.

Right?

 _Stop_ , Joan commanded herself. She needed to be strong. Sherlock needed her here, whether or not he admitted it, and whether she had ever told him or not, Joan needed him. She couldn't think about this any more, it was too dangerous. She would NOT lose him. If that meant suppressing whatever it was that kept pulling her into his orbit, then that's how it would be.

However, despite knowing she needed to be strong, Joan let herself stand there a few moments longer, her eyes softening as she watched the way his muscles tensed and rippled as he smacked his target. She found it impossible to turn away, so she let herself admire him for a few seconds more. A small indulgence, but one she rarely allowed herself. A moment of weakness that cracked her strong resolve.

After all, Sherlock Holmes was becoming Joan Watson's greatest weakness.


	3. A Mystery Indeed

When Sherlock had finished his practice he'd gone to shower, and then he'd gone and gotten take out to bring back to the brownstone for dinner. When he returned, he sat the food on the kitchen table and called, "Watson! I brought dinner!"

"I'll be down in a minute!" Her voice called from upstairs. Sherlock got the food out and arranged it on the table, and sat down to start eating.

When Joan came down, Sherlock noticed that she'd showered as well. Her hair was up in a messy bun, but it was still slightly wet. She smelled faintly of apricot, which he recognized as the scent of the new body wash she had purchased a few days ago. When she caught him staring she gave him a small, slightly nervous smile, and he realized how beautiful she was without makeup.

Sherlock told himself to stop noticing these things about her, but he tried to tell himself that noticing these things was not unusual. _Occupational hazard_ , he thought, _I would notice these things about anyone._

He hoped that were true.

But when he had noticed her watching him earlier, he had become hyper-aware of her presence. The entire time she had stood there watching, Sherlock had been resisting the urge to turn around and meet her gaze. He longed to know why she was there, what she was thinking, and it weighed on him with every passing second. Finally she had left, and he was once again able to focus on his practice. Upon finishing, he had practically run out of the brownstone, needing space. Dinner had been a convenient excuse for his absence.

But why did he care that she watched?

Needing to distract himself from going down that road of thought again, Sherlock cut to the chase. As Joan grabbed her food from the table and went to the cabinet to grab some utensils, Sherlock inquired, "you watched me while I was practicing with the single stick earlier. Why?'

Joan stood there next to the table for a second. Unsure of what to say and unable to completely mask her frustration at having been caught, she sat her food down hard. Her first instinct was to get defensive. "I wasn't-"

Sherlock cut her off with a look that said _you me know better than to think I did not notice._ Joan knew it was pointless to deny it. She sat down with a plunk and sighed, avoiding his gaze.

So he had noticed her staring, so what? She refused to give him the satisfaction of watching her flounder for an explanation, so she just said nothing and started eating. She ignored his stare.

Sherlock realized she wasn't going to bend under his scrutiny, so he continued pressing. "You do not usually watch me like that. Typically, when you notice me practicing, you either join me or you go take care of your own business after but a few seconds." Sherlock stared at her, doing his best to be intimidating. He gave her the intense stare he gave a witness when he wanted them to squirm until they talked. They usually did. But Joan was used to his tactics, she was much more immune to even his most intimidating stare. He hadn't intimidated her in a long time.

Joan said nothing.

Sherlock pressed on. "This time, you watched for a full six minutes and thirty-nine seconds."

 _Damn_ , Joan thought, working hard to keep a scowl from her face. _He even counted?_ Then she wondered, _was it really that long? No wonder he noticed. I should have been more careful_. She studiously avoided his eyes, keeping her face as blank as possible.

Sherlock squinted at her. Whatever she was thinking, she was clearly trying very hard not to let him see it. Her face was practically blank, but he could tell the blank look was not effortless. She was hiding something from him. But whatever it was, she didn't seem to be about to give it up.

His intimidation was not working, so Sherlock switched tactics. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "The truth is, Watson, once I noticed you standing there, I figured you would leave shortly, so I said nothing. However, you did not leave, nor did you ask to join. I found that unusual, so I began timing how long you stood there. It went on far longer than a casual glance." He paused, hoping for effect, before continuing, "with each passing minute I considered asking you to join me, but I thought perhaps it would be interesting to see how long you stood there if uninterrupted. Six minutes and thirty-nine seconds." Again a pause. "But of course, that's only after I started counting."

Joan took a serious interest in her food.

After another awkward silence, Sherlock quietly added, "I simply wish to know why."

Joan did her best not to let her face give away anything. She was frustrated that she hadn't thought to come up with an explanation for her actions in case he had noticed. She should have figured he would. Now she was kicking herself. Try as she might, she couldn't come up with a rational explanation for what she had done. All the possible responses that came to mind sounded stupid even to her, and Sherlock would know in an instant if she lied. Joan kept eating in silence.

Sherlock shook his head. It appeared he wasn't going to get an answer. Why couldn't he tell what she was thinking? Perhaps he had taught her too well; clearly she was getting too good at schooling her emotions and keeping them from showing on her face. At times Sherlock could read her so well, but now, when he really wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, the book that is Joan Watson was completely closed to him.

Sherlock was starting to get frustrated. _Why does it even matter?_ He scolded himself. _So she watched you practice. What do you care why she did it?_

But despite his attempts to be logical, Sherlock couldn't deny that he wanted to know. He wanted to know badly. And, if he were honest with himself, it wasn't just his detective need to have an answer for everything that was driving this. It was his need to have an answer to _her_.

Joan finished up her food, but she noticed Sherlock had not touched his since she walked in. He had barely made a dent in it. This was her chance to escape. She stood up, grabbing her empty container, and started to head off to her room. However, when she got up, she made the mistake of meeting Sherlock's eyes.

He was no longer giving her the intense staredown he used on witnesses. He wasn't even giving her the amused look he had given her when she had first walked into the kitchen. Instead, his eyes were basically pleading with her to give him an answer, and she felt the overwhelming urge to take pity on him, to give him something. Against her better judgement, Joan decided she couldn't just leave him hanging.

As she looked into his eyes, her carefully held guard slipped just a bit. Sherlock did not miss the small look of longing she accidentally let slip through.

With a sigh, Joan said, "maybe I liked what I saw," and took off to her room before he had a chance to reply, and before she had a chance to give in to her weakness and do or say something she would regret.

Sherlock heard her door shut upstairs, but he didn't move.

Had he heard her right?

What had she meant?

What had her look meant?

Suddenly, Sherlock regretted having asked her. Now he had more questions than he did answers. He wondered so many things.

What had just happened?

What did she mean

Why did he care?

What did he feel for Joan Watson?

Sherlock was frustrated to find that he didn't have answers to any of these.

Joan Watson was a mystery indeed.

* * *

Alright, so I officially decided to make this a longer fic. I hope you guys like where it's going! Massive thanks to everyone who has already liked and followed, it means a lot! You guys rock! Thanks for reading, and please drop a review if you can :)


	4. A Meaningful Connection

Once she got to her room, Joan closed the door and immediately started pacing. She quickly realized that her room was too small to contain the emotions she had welling inside her, but she couldn't risk going back out now. She'd taken a big enough risk already, and she feared how it would look if she ran back downstairs now.

Above all, she feared what she would find waiting for her if she did.

 _What did I just do?_ She wondered, trying to distract herself from what had just happened by counting the number of paces from the door to the opposite wall and back. The number was too small.

 _Why did I have to say anything?_ She cursed herself. _Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut?_

As she went back and forth, back and forth, she tried to determine what Sherlock's possible reaction would be. Would he know what she meant? Would he be his keen self, able to detect the feelings she was hiding behind those few words she had said? Or would he be his obtuse self, able to pick out the most obscure details of a case, but totally blind to her emotions?

If she were to go back downstairs right now, which Sherlock would she find?

Which one did she hope for?

She wasn't sure.

Moreover, if he were able to figure out how she was feeling, what would his reaction be?

Would he share her feelings?

 _Of course not_ , she told herself. _You know better than to hope for that_. It simply wasn't possible, he'd made that fairly clear on multiple occasions. Joan refused to allow herself to get her hopes up, only to be hurt when he inevitably didn't feel the same way or want the same thing.

In that case, would he be upset? Would this ruin their partnership? Their friendship? Should she even worry about that? It was possible that he wouldn't even know how she felt. Her words could have been innocent enough, couldn't they? Joan certainly hoped so.

She desperately needed to sort all of this out, but the answers were not to be found by locking herself in her bedroom and getting lost in her own head. Joan threw her hands up in frustration and eventually plopped down on her bed, exhausted by the effort of second-guessing the past and trying to predict the future.

* * *

Still in the chair he had occupied before she had left, Sherlock sat stock still, staring at the wall opposite him without moving a muscle. He hadn't moved at all since Watson had left the kitchen and headed upstairs. His response to their brief exchange was the direct antithesis of the pacing he could hear her doing upstairs. _Opposites_ , he thought, _like yin and yang; dark and light_.

But no, he and Watson were not opposites, not really. _Complements_ , that was a better word for what they really were.

Truly yin and yang, then.

With his head still spinning from the look Watson had given him, Sherlock tried to figure out what he should do next. Or what he w _anted_ to do next. Despite her effort to control her emotions the entire time he had been talking, Watson had let her guard down momentarily and given him a glimpse into what she might be thinking and feeling, and now Sherlock could not stop thinking about what that could possibly mean.

If he were being honest with himself, Sherlock was afraid of what it could mean. Where it could go. Where they could go. Together.

Holmes and Watson. Sherlock and Joan. _Together_.

Could it really happen?

Did he _want_ it to happen?

Joan Watson meant more to him than anyone else ever had, and Sherlock was forced to admit, only to himself, that he feared losing her more than he would ever admit to anyone else. He had only truly been "together" with another person once, and he had not only lost her, but he had also lost himself. The only real connection he had made with another person had ended in the greatest loss of his life, and then the greatest betrayal.

He could not let that happen with Watson.

 _Would_ not.

But where did that leave him?

Sherlock again found himself without an answer. He needed space. Time to think. He needed to get out of the brownstone, away from a place where every single thing he looked at reminded him so much of her. He needed to be somewhere where her presence was not so ubiquitous. Abruptly, Sherlock stood up and pushed his chair back with a squeak. He needed to go for a walk. Hopefully the cold night air would help him clear his thoughts. He grabbed his shoes and headed for the door.

But before he got the door open, Sherlock was once again reminded of the look on Watson's face as she had looked at him moments ago. He was reminded of the momentary lapse in her guard. Watson had let him see a part of herself that she had always kept hidden, especially from him, and Sherlock realized that her doing so was no small gesture on her part. He was suddenly overcome with a rather inexplicable need to reciprocate.

Sherlock felt the need to let his guard down, just once. Despite his fears, his barriers, his walls, he needed let her in, even if only momentarily. Perhaps he shouldn't. Perhaps he should just walk out the door and come back later and pretend nothing had happened. But Sherlock found he couldn't do that to her. She had let him see her true self, and he needed to do the same. He _had_ to.

However, he couldn't quite bring himself to face her. Not yet. He worried that if he did, he would be forced into a conversation that he wasn't ready for, and his fears, his frustrations, his emotions that he didn't understand would all lead him to say the wrong thing, and he'd end up pushing her further away. That was the last thing he wanted. Therefore, he couldn't talk to her. Not yet. _Not yet. Not. Yet._

Trying to convince himself that it he wasn't being cowardly, Sherlock grabbed a pen and paper, and wrote a short note on it. He placed it on the bottom step, where he knew Watson would see it if she ever emerged from her room.

Sherlock took one last look up the stairs, staring at the place where Watson had disappeared with a longing glance to rival the one she had given him earlier. Then he headed out the door, absentmindedly slamming it in frustration with himself.

* * *

Joan heard the door slam shut downstairs. He had left. She sighed, half in relief but half in frustration.

 _What did you expect?_ She asked herself cynically. _That he'd come rushing up the stairs after you and tell you everything you've been wanting to hear him say?_ Despite everything, Joan laughed at the visual. That would be so very unlike him, and even imagining Sherlock doing something like that brought a smile to her face.

After a few more laps of pacing and a lot more frustration, Joan figured it was safe to go downstairs and make herself some tea. She slowly opened her bedroom door, trying to be as silent as possible in case Sherlock hadn't really left. She stuck her head out the door, listening intently to make sure she was alone. When she was satisfied that the brownstone was truly silent, she made her way down the stairs.

Joan was so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost missed the note on the last step.

Almost.

It was folded in half, and at first Joan wondered if it was just another stray paper Sherlock had dropped at some point and forgotten about. That wouldn't be unusual.

But when she picked it up, she realized it hadn't been there when she had come up just a few minutes ago; she felt certain she would have seen it if it had been. She realized with a start that Sherlock must have put this on the step just before he left.

As Joan unfolded it, she noticed her name at the top of the paper, written in the handwriting she had become so familiar with over the years.

 _Watson,_ it said, and Joan couldn't help but admire reading her own name written in his own, intimate handwriting. When her eyes finally traveled past her name, Joan gasped as she read the rest of the short note.

 _You are my most meaningful connection._

"Most" was underlined, the line thick and darker than the letters, as if he had gone over it multiple times.

So much for not getting her hopes up.


	5. A Small Gesture

Joan read the short note over and over as she absentmindedly made her way to the couch to consider what she should do next. She was tempted to go after Sherlock, to find him and tell him…. Tell him what exactly?

 _Everything_ , she thought, but that was as far as she got. She wasn't even sure where he had gone or if she could even find him. It would likely be a waste of effort to go after him, so she decided to stay put and await his return to the brownstone.

She considered sending him a text, just to make sure he was okay, but she couldn't find the right the words. The few quick drafts she typed up seemed inadequate and lame, so she quickly abandoned that idea.

Frustrated, Joan decided she would just have to sit there and wait until he came back. To her dismay, she found herself constantly glancing at the clock to see how much time had passed. It was never very much. She attempted to distract herself by reading, but as her eyes skimmed the words, her mind was replaying images of Sherlock practicing with the single stick, shirtless and sweaty from the exertion. She rolled her eyes. Reading was hopeless. She put the book down after only a few pages, hoping Sherlock would come back soon.

After what felt like hours, Joan noticed that the sky was beginning to darken outside. Sherlock had still not returned. She paced the living room for a while, even checked her phone to see if he had texted her. Nothing. There was no sign of him, and she was exhausted.

Eventually, she laid down on the couch, her mind shuffling between the many meaningful conversations the two of them had shared over the years, and she drifted off to sleep with his face in her mind.

* * *

As the air started turning cooler and the sun started dipping below the horizon, Sherlock made his way back to the brownstone. To his unending frustration, his walk had done little to clear his head. Instead, he had spent the majority of the timing thinking about his partner, and marveling over the little details that made her so essentially and intimately _her_. He had been unable to chase away thoughts of her brilliance, images of her beauty. If anything, the walk had mixed up his emotions even more.

Upon arriving home, he still did not know what he hoped to find on the other side of the door.

With a deep breath, Sherlock opened the door, wincing when it let out a small squeak. He attempted to close it behind him as quietly as he could, so as not to alert Watson to his presence. He stood inside listening for a second to see if he could determine where she was, but the brownstone remained silent. He surmised she must have gone to bed. Satisfied, he made his way into the living room.

Sherlock stopped short when he noticed Watson's prone form asleep on the couch. She lay on her side, her head on the throw pillow, both her feet and one arm dangling slightly off the front of the cushion. She had left the blanket folded neatly over the back, as if she hadn't planned on going to sleep there.

Sherlock stood, captured and entranced by the unexpected sight of her. He found himself unable to look away. He took advantage of the moment to study her. He admired the way her hair fell across the pillow, the way one arm was curled up under her head to support it, and the way she rested with a slight smile on her face, as if she were truly content and at peace. He admired the glow of her skin in the evening light, his eyes traveling down the bare arm that had fallen off the couch.

It was then that he noticed the small white paper on the floor just beneath her fingertips.

His note.

So she had found it.

And apparently, she had kept it with her until she had fallen asleep.

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled. He was glad she had found the note. It was something he should have told her a long time ago but had never quite been able to admit. He had never found the words, or, honestly, the courage to tell her. Until tonight.

At least now she knew.

Finding some small closure in the knowledge that Watson had found his note, Sherlock decided to head to bed himself. But to his frustration, as he turned on his heel to leave, the floorboard beneath him creaked. Loudly. He winced, turning back around to see if he had roused his partner.

He had.

Joan stirred, slightly confused as she awoke, not entirely sure when she had drifted off or what had woken her. She blearily remembered that the last thing she had been doing was waiting for Sherlock to return home. He must have been the noise that woke her. Blinking and rubbing her eyes, she murmured, "Sherlock?"

He froze at the sound of his name. Sherlock was completely unsure of what to do next. Escape was out of the question at this point, he figured. She had noticed him. However, the tone of her voice indicated a question, one which he was apparently supposed to answer. "Yes," he whispered, a part of him still hoping she would drift back to sleep. However, when she kept rubbing her eyes and sat up, he realized she was waking up fully. He sighed, "sorry to have woken you."

Joan shook her head slightly. "It's alright," she said, the slurring traces of sleep leaving her voice as she became fully conscious once more. "I didn't mean to fall asleep," she stated, then added sheepishly, "I was waiting for you to come back."

Even in the low evening light, Sherlock noticed a slight pink tinge arise on her cheeks as she said the last part. It gave him a little more courage, knowing she was as nervous about this as he was. Meeting her eyes, he nodded to the paper on the floor. "You got my note." It wasn't a question.

Joan nodded, answering anyway. "Yes." She stared at him until he couldn't take it any longer and averted his gaze. However, she was happy to see that he didn't move away. He remained rooted to his spot on the floor.

Summoning some courage, Joan scooted over to one side of the couch and patted the spot next to her. Sherlock heard the noise and looked back up, giving her a questioning and doubtful look. "Come. Sit," she told him softly, trying not to sound as if she were begging.

Sherlock didn't move, but his eyes traveled from hers to the spot next to her on the couch. Joan could tell that some part of him wanted to move over next to her, but still he held back. "I don't bite," she added lightly, and when he met her gaze once more, she gave him a reassuring smile.

Sherlock's mind and heart were waging a war with each other. He so badly wanted to go over to the couch, take Watson's hand, and tell her all the things that he felt he could not hold in much longer. But he was afraid. He knew that if he allowed himself to sit down and talk to her, no matter what was said, there would be a fundamental change in their relationship. It would become _more_. It would become something Sherlock had not had in a very long time. Something that he had been convinced he would never have again. Something he truly _feared_ having again. He didn't know if he was ready for that, if he'd ever be ready for that.

But he wanted to be ready.

He so badly wanted to be ready.

When he saw her smile start to fade, Sherlock felt guilty for denying her, and he couldn't help himself any longer. He let his heart win out and made his way over to the couch. However, he perched himself precariously on the edge of the couch, sitting tensed up, like a nervous bird about to fly away.

Joan's smile returned as he sat down, and Sherlock felt better. He let himself relax a tiny bit but remained on the edge of the couch. He met her eyes briefly before returning them to the floor. He knew he should probably say something, but he was afraid of what would come out if he did. He remained silent, staring at the floor.

Joan sensed it would be up to her to say something, but she didn't mind. She was just pleased that he had come sit down at all, as she hadn't been sure he would. She could tell he was nervous, but so was she. This was uncharted territory for them, and they were both at sea.

With her heart beating faster, Joan scooted closer to him until she was within reaching distance. Sherlock's breathing increased but his eyes remained steadfastly on the floor. Joan smiled when he made no attempt to move away or put more distance between them. Unsure of what to say, but needing to say something, Joan whispered, "Sherlock…"

Something in the way her voice wavered over his name made Sherlock's head snap up until he met her eyes once more. His eyes softened as he looked into hers, his guard slipping as he lost control over his emotions. He held her gaze so long that Joan could no longer form words. She was as lost in his eyes as he was in hers.

Neither of them moved for a few long moments. They just sat there, simply savoring the chance to look into each other's eyes and let down the guards they had both kept up for so long. They had never looked at each other like this before, and neither was in a hurry to end it.

Sherlock thought about all the things Joan Watson was to him. His friend, his most meaningful connection, the only person who truly knew him. His partner, in more ways than one. He was reminded of something he had told Gregson about partnerships: how, when two people are truly partners, the smallest gesture can speak volumes. There were many volumes of things he could have said, wanted to say, in that moment, but no words came to him as he stared into her eyes. Instead, he opted for a gesture.

His heart pounding, Sherlock slowly reached up and put his hand lightly on the side of her face, never taking his eyes off hers. Joan closed her eyes, involuntarily leaning into his touch with a small sigh. She turned her head slightly, so that her lips just grazed his palm, giving his hand the slightest kiss before turning back to look at him again.

Sherlock's eyes were on fire. Joan could see the emotions warring within him: the fear, the need, the want, the longing, all fighting against one another and all battering his attempts to suppress them. She gave him a tiny smile, and he returned it with a small sigh before dropping his hand.

Joan found herself missing his touch already, but she suppressed the desire to show her disappointment on her face, maintaining her smile.

Sherlock hoped she had understood what he was trying to convey. He hoped that this small step forward could be enough for now, hoped that she could understand that he could only let go of so much of his control at once. He hoped it was enough. He met her gaze once more, his eyes worried and questioning. Joan nodded to him slightly. She understood. It was enough. _He_ was enough.

Relieved, Sherlock got up and headed up the stairs to the media room. He needed something to work on, something concrete to which he could find answers.

As he disappeared up the steps, Joan sighed, a small smile playing at her lips. For most people, what had just transpired between her and Sherlock would seem benign, even boring. But for them, it meant so much more. It was a step forward, an expression of things they had kept hidden even from themselves. It was an acknowledgement of feelings that had always been there for them both, but that they had both denied out of fear and respect for each other. It was a promise that more was to come, when they were both ready. It was all he could give her right now, but for now, it was enough.

His small gesture had spoken volumes, and she had been listening intently.


	6. To Believe Again

A few days later, Joan and Sherlock were sprawled out in the living room after having solved an exhausting case. They'd worked practically nonstop for the past three days, and Joan suspected Sherlock hadn't slept even a full nine hours in that span. She studied him as he sat in the armchair across from where she lay on the couch. He was reading a book about some new scientific process. He had been describing it to her earlier, but she had only feigned listening. He had noticed her lack of attention and given up, resigned to reading in silence.

Joan found watching him was much more interesting than listening to his recital of the book. She stared as he squinted at the page. She knew that look; it meant something was intriguing to him, and she smiled to herself as she wondered if he'd come up with some new experiment related to whatever it was he was reading. As she watched him, her amused smile turned into one more intimate as she remembered the note she still had tucked away upstairs and the moment they had shared on this very couch only a few nights before.

"If there's something you want to say, Watson, I'd be happy to put this book down," Sherlock's voice came from behind the covers of the book. Joan jumped slightly at his voice, a look of guilt crossing her face. Had she been staring that long? She sighed to herself. She should have known he'd notice her staring. He always did. Somehow, she never learned.

Or didn't care.

Sherlock had yet to put the book down. Joan averted her gaze from him, looking instead at the pillow she held in her lap, idly picking at a stray thread. She shifted so that she was sitting upright on the couch, leaving the other half of it empty. "I… I think we need to talk," she said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

Sherlock froze momentarily, sensing what it was she wanted to talk about. But he quickly regained his composure and put the book down slowly, giving her a blank smile. "What is it you'd like to talk about?" He asked innocently and a bit too brightly, as if he didn't already know.

Joan saw right through his facade. "I think you know," she told him matter-of-factly.

He did know. Now it was his turn to look away. The light smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of seriousness and gravity.

Joan watched the emotions play across his face as she waited for him to say something. He looked as if he were doubting himself, as if he had an idea that he desperately wanted to try, but he couldn't decide whether he should or not. She saw the moment he made up his mind, his face coming to rest on a look of intent. He looked back at her, meeting her eyes once more.

Slowly, he got up from the armchair and walked over to the couch, his eyes never leaving her face, and sat down next to her. "I do," he whispered.

Joan swallowed, looking away again. She sensed it was her turn to say something, but she hesitated, trying to decide what to do. Inwardly, she laughed at herself. _You said you wanted to talk,_ she chastised herself, _so talk._ Her voice was barely more than a whisper when she said, "your note. You said that I…" her voice threatened to give out, so she took a breath and tried again. "…that I was your most meaningful connection." She looked back up at him, but his face gave nothing away. He was still looking at her intently, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking. "I… I just need to know what you meant." She paused, before continuing, even more quietly, "what you want."

Sherlock continued staring at her, no longer able to school his face. The emotions warred across it once more as he considered all the possible answers he could give her. No answer seemed accurate. What could he tell her? How could he tell her what he wanted when, God, he didn't even know what he wanted?

Perhaps, he thought, he should start with the first of her questions. What did his note mean? That would be easier for him to articulate, so he gave it a try. "What I meant, Watson…" he paused, unable to continue for the moment. The next words would leave him more vulnerable than he was comfortable with, and he found himself unable to utter them while looking her in the eye. Instead, he turned forward, his gaze downcast. He could still feel her eyes on the side of his face. When he started over, his voice was low. "You came into my life at a time when I thought it was impossible for me to ever connect to another person again. You showed me I was wrong, and I am grateful." He paused. "You changed my life, Watson, in a way I thought no one ever would. I had foreclosed myself to the chance of ever connecting to someone else, and I gave you ample chances, and, honestly, ample reasons to walk away and give up on me." Another pause. "But you never did. You tore down every barrier I had built around myself. Made me question everything I thought… Everything I felt. You still do." There was silence for a few seconds before he added, "perhaps I should have told you this long before now, as you deserved to hear it. However, I was…"

 _Was what?_ He thought. Too proud to admit it? Likely. Ashamed? Probably. Scared of what it really meant? Definitely.

Sherlock shook his head. He felt the pull of her stare and couldn't resist turning to look at her once again. When he continued, his voice was a whisper, and he was unable to keep the tremor of emotion out of it. "What I meant was that you mean more to me than anyone else ever has. Or, I suspect, ever will."

Joan wasn't sure if she wanted to smile or cry. She fought to do neither, to remain as serious as he was, but she wasn't able to keep the ghost of a smile off her lips or the slight mist from covering her eyes. She whispered back, "You changed my life too. You know that, right?"

"Not until you said it," Sherlock replied, his voice wavering.

They fell into a momentary silence, both of them alternating between looking at each other and looking away. Finally, Sherlock stated, "The question is, Watson, where do we go from here?"

Joan knew this wasn't her decision to make. She knew what she wanted, but she wasn't sure he did. She could sense his fear, his hesitation, and she understood why he felt that way. With all that he had been through, she didn't blame him for being afraid. She shook her head lightly. "That's not for me to decide," she said. "The real question is, Sherlock, where do _you_ want to go from here?"

Sherlock looked down, studying Watson's hands as she wrung them in nervousness. His voice was husky when he whispered, "I want to be post-post-love, Watson," his eyes became misty, and he blinked, trying to keep the tears at bay. "But I…" he shook his head once more, at a loss for how to tell her how much he wanted this, but how much he feared it too.

No longer able to control herself, Joan gave in to her greatest weakness. Staring momentarily into the eyes she so admired, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his, her arms coming up to curl around his neck.

At that moment, at the feel of her lips on his, Sherlock lost control as well. No longer thinking, he gave in to his most hidden desires and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer until their hearts were beating right next to each other's'. He kissed her back, turning her chaste kiss into one full of emotion and meaning.

When they at last parted for air, Sherlock rested his forehead against hers, not wanting to lose the physical connection they had. When she sighed, her breath so close he could feel it, Sherlock was no longer able to control the tears that had been threatening him. One escaped and made its way down his face. "Watson…" He whispered, moving one of his hands up to hold the back of her head behind her ear. In response, she rubbed her nose against his, and Sherlock realized just how badly he needed this, needed her here, close to him, never leaving his side. The tears came more freely now. "Joan," he whispered, "I don't… I don't know if I can do this." He wanted to tell her just how much he _needed_ this, but how much it frightened him too. But the right words escaped him, overcome as he was with emotion. It was an unfamiliar sensation, and it muddled his thoughts such that he couldn't properly explain himself. Reluctantly, he pulled his head away from hers, dropping his hand back to rest on her waist.

Joan sensed what he was trying to tell her. She knew him well enough to know that this was not something he took lightly, or something he could do easily and without fear. She swallowed her own tears, hoping she would be able to reassure him. She put one hand on the side of his face, her thumb brushing away his tears as they fell. She tilted his head up so he was forced to look her in the eye and said quietly, "I know."

And she did. She knew. She understood him in a way that no one else had ever even tried to. She knew all of his faults, all of his insecurities, but yet here she was. Sherlock momentarily marveled at the woman that was Joan Watson. No one had ever cared to know him the way she did, and yet she was still here. He could hardly believe all of it was real, s _he_ was real. He said nothing, blinking at her and attempting to control his emotions once more.

Joan continued, "I _know_ , Sherlock. I do." She gave him a meaningful stare, trying to convince him to believe her. "But it doesn't have to be like… Like last time. I'm not her. You won't lose me. Not ever."

Sherlock wanted to believe her. "It's just…" he murmured, fighting the urge to look away again. "I don't know what I would do without you, Watson."

Joan smiled. "You don't have to worry about that," she said, "I promise." After a momentary silence, she slid her hand down to rest on his shoulder, taking his hand with her other before adding, "just trust me."

And he did. He trusted her more than anyone else, perhaps even himself. She was the one constant in his life, the one person who had never let him down. Perhaps she was right about this. Maybe it could be different with her. Maybe he could let himself go, lose the horrors of his past in her embrace. Maybe he could give in to the desire he had suppressed for so long, and maybe doing so would not end in losing her. Throughout everything they had been through together, she had always stayed. Maybe she still would.

Pushing away the fear and doubt that still threatened to creep into his mind, Sherlock brought his hands up to cup her face. Looking into her eyes, he said, "I do trust you." Then he bent his head down to hers, returning the kiss she had bestowed on him earlier. His arms dropped to encircle her, and he pulled her closer again, never wanting to let go.

As the kiss ended, Sherlock hugged her tighter, and Joan wrapped her arms around him too. They both held on, not wanting the moment to end. Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing himself to forget the fears of this moment that he had always harbored. It was time to let go. Time to believe again. To believe in love, to believe in himself. To believe that things had changed, and this time it would be different. But most of all, to believe in her.


	7. If This is Love

_A/N: hey guys! Sorry it's been awhile since I updated this, but the muse was silent for a bit lol. Anyway, hope you enjoy this next chapter, and thanks for all the support!_

xx

It happened exactly three weeks and four days after their first kiss.

Of course, they'd shared other intimate moments in the intervening weeks: small good night kisses, glances lingering longer than normal, sitting curled up together while working rather than across the room together... But for a few weeks, they'd managed to avoid the moment they both knew would come eventually; the moment that Sherlock had been constantly worrying about every time he had held her in his arms since that first kiss.

They had been working on a particularly tough case, a kidnapping. Joan had been beyond frustrated as their repeated efforts to rescue the victim had failed. Sherlock could tell that the case had taken its toll on her; she hardly slept or ate during the entire case.

Mercifully, they'd had a breakthrough and managed to find the victim before any harm came to her. But it had still been a hellish week. When they'd returned to the brownstone Sherlock noticed that Joan looked exhausted. He was perturbed to find that she didn't appear to be relieved that they had succeeded, but rather it seemed as if the case were still weighing on her. Wanting to lift her spirits, Sherlock had tried to distract her with some experiments, but she declined. He offered to make dinner, but she wasn't hungry. He thought maybe they could do some sparring practice, but she looked far too tired. Sherlock began to worry that he wouldn't be able to pull her out of her depressed state.

However, after much deliberation, Sherlock thought of just the thing to bring back Watson's smile. Grinning, he took her hand and pulled her along, ignoring her protest that she just wanted to go to bed.

They ended up in the media room, and Sherlock steered Joan to the couch and made sure she was comfortable before hunting for the remote he needed. When he found it, he sat down next to her and turned the TV on, flipping until he found the Mets game. Satisfied, he put the remote down and sat back to watch the game.

Joan looked at him in surprise. "You really want to watch the game with me?" She asked.

He nodded, smiling at her. "Of course," he murmured. "Although I confess to not understanding the allure of America's favorite pastime, I know it's important to you, so now it's important to me." Sherlock was relieved when Joan gave him a huge smile. Slightly embarrassed, he added sheepishly, "besides, I think we could both use a welcome distraction to unwind." He was rewarded with a brilliant smile from a very pleased Joan.

That's when it happened.

Joan, happier than she'd been in a really long time, curled up next to Sherlock, her head on his shoulder and hand coming to rest on his chest. As his arm settled around her waist, she smiled warmly and whispered, "I love you."

Sherlock said nothing. He tried not to react at all, hoping not to betray the instant inner turmoil her words had caused him.

Over the last few weeks, he had considered the possibility that they were rapidly approaching a romantic relationship, and he had attempted to decide how he would come to terms with such a development. He had wondered if perhaps Watson would utter those three little words that had the ability to make his world spin, the three words which meant they'd entered a game which he failed to understand. He had thought about all the ways he could possibly respond to such a sentiment, but he hadn't reached any satisfactory conclusion about what he should do if the situation did arise.

As a result, he found himself utterly unable to do a thing.

Instead, he sat still. He watched Watson's face as she watched the game. He let her contented smile ease his tension. He tried to forget all his fears and doubts and self-loathing and simply be happy in her presence. Thankfully, it didn't appear that Watson was waiting for him to respond, so Sherlock let the moments pass and contemplated how to respond in a way that would give Watson the explanation she deserved.

For her part, Joan did not expect him to reply. In fact, she hadn't really expected herself to say that, at least not this soon. She had just been so happy, so content and caught up in the moment, and it was the first time she truly had realized her feelings for him really did amount to love. It was the truth, so she had said it.

But she also knew how he felt about romantic love. She hadn't expected him to reply like any other person would, because he isn't just any other person. He's Sherlock Holmes, utterly unique. Joan respected him enough not to expect him to fit into traditional relationship roles.

So they sat together, contentedly watching baseball in each other's arms. Occasionally Sherlock would ask a question about a rule or a play and Joan would explain it. They were both satisfied with the evening.

Eventually, they came to a break in the game which Joan had told Sherlock was called a "stretch" of some kind. He hadn't really listened to her explanation this time. He'd been preoccupied with how he intended to use this break, with what he needed to say. Joan got up as the game went to commercial, murmuring something about snacks.

When she returned with a bag of peanuts in hand and a grin on her face, she said, "you don't have a complete baseball experience until you've had peanuts."

Sherlock returned her smile, taking the bag from her. Then he took her hand and sat her down next to him, turning her slightly so he could look into her eyes.

Joan saw that his expression had turned serious all of a sudden, and she became concerned. She could tell something was bothering him. Warily, she asked, "what is it?"

Sherlock paused and looked down, suddenly nervous of messing this up. Joan put her fingers lightly under his chin, tilting his head up until he had no choice but to look into her eyes. "Tell me, Sherlock," she whispered.

Sherlock was tempted to look away again, but he fought to maintain here gaze. "There are just a few things I need you to know, Watson," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't... _love_ like other people. In fact, I hardly understand romantic love at all. You know I've only had one romantic relationship, and it..." he paused. "Well..."

Joan gave him a sympathetic smile, knowing how much it hurt him every time his relationship with Irene was brought up. She wanted to interrupt, to tell him not to worry, to tell him she understood, to kiss him until the pained look went away... But she sensed his need to air his thoughts, so she stayed silent. She did, however, take his hands lightly in hers, rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles in an attempt to give him courage.

It helped. Sherlock looked down at their joined hands and found the strength he needed to continue. "And that relationship was a sham from the beginning." He coughed to buy himself a few seconds. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I fail to understand romantic love, and conventional relationships baffle me. So, I want you to know that I do not _love_ in the typical sense. I confess to not even knowing what that emotion entails, or how to properly feel it myself or bestow it on another."

Sherlock was looking at her very intently now, and Joan was afraid she might get lost in the depths of his eyes if she stared much longer. Softly, Sherlock continued, "I do, however, know this. I care about you more than I have ever cared about anyone else, myself included. I am without a doubt a better detective when I'm with you, but I have found that I am a better _person_ because of you, too. And the last few weeks have been the best and happiest weeks of my life."

There was another pause, and Sherlock stared into Joan's eyes, hoping to convey a thousand times more than he could with words alone. His voice was softer when he added, "I can't even imagine life without you by my side, Watson. I don't want to imagine it. I wouldn't be the same without you... I wouldn't even be whole."

Letting go of one of her hands, Sherlock moved his hand to the side of her face. He wiped away a stray tear that had escaped Joan's attempts to hold it at bay. Bringing his forehead to rest against hers, Sherlock whispered, "so if that is love, then I love you very much, Joan Watson. And though I do not fully understand the conventions of romantic love, if you'll let me, I will do my best to bestow my love on you, as best I know how."

Joan let out the breath she had been holding, which came out with a gasping sound as she tried and failed to choke back more tears. Sherlock kissed her cheeks, catching her tears as they fell. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he found her mouth with his and kissed her with all the emotion he could muster. His hands found their way into her hair, and as he pulled her closer she kissed him back with passion, hoping he knew how much his words meant to her.

When they finally pulled away, Joan leaned back and stared at him, her face a bit puffy but radiant with a smile. Sherlock thought she had never been so beautful. Or perhaps he had just never let himself appreciate how beautiful she was. Joan leaned back in, resting her forehead on his and giving him one more soft kiss.

Dimly, Sherlock became aware of the TV announcer saying something about the Mets. Without moving his head away, he said lightly, "I think the game is back on, Watson."

Joan laughed, pulling back to look at him again. When he returned her smile, she looked back at the TV. "Yes it is, and we're winning!" She exclaimed, once again nestling herself back into Sherlock's arms.

Joan spent the rest of the evening happily watching the game and cheering on her team, but Sherlock didn't see any of the game. He spend the rest of the evening watching her, and falling further in love every second.


	8. Watching You

They'd finished the case they'd spent the last two weeks working on, but there were still a few ministerial matters to arrange before they wrapped it all up. Joan stood in front of of Bell and Gregson, the three of them dividing up the remaining tasks.

Sherlock was sitting in an empty chair across from her with his back to the wall. Bell and Gregson had their backs to him, but Joan could see him through the gap in the two men in front of her. He had his hands behind his head as if he were lounging or resting, but Joan knew he wasn't resting.

As Gregson told them how he planned on dividing up the paperwork, Joan was constantly aware of the of feel of Sherlock watching her. Every once in awhile, her eyes would stray from Bell or Gregson and find Sherlock's. Each time, his eyes were locked on hers. He was watching her intently, as if he were trying to figure her out. It was the way he watched people in interrogations, his gaze so intent on noticing every detail about them. His stare was starting to unnerve her. She couldn't stop looking over at him. No matter how many times she looked, his gaze never wavered.

Joan hoped the two in front of her didn't notice her occasional lapse in attention or how often her eyes kept seeking Sherlock's. They still hadn't told anyone at the precinct about the change in their relationship, and so far the police seemed not to have figured it out. She desperately hoped she wasn't giving it away right now. She attempted to ignore Sherlock and give Gregson her full focus as he dished out the paperwork assignments.

Finally, the conversation ended. Bell and Gregson went back to Gregson's office to work on their assigned paperwork. With her and Sherlock's assignments in hand, Joan made her way over to where he sat on the bench outside the interrogation rooms.

As she walked towards him, Sherlock kept watching her. He didn't exactly meet her eyes, but he never looked away either. Joan felt like he was examining every part of her. It was both exhilarating and unnerving, and she fought the urge to run over to him and ask him what he was doing.

At last, Joan made it to the bench. Sherlock seemed not to react. He continued studying her, taking in the finer details of her person now that she was closer. Joan stood there staring at Sherlock for a minute before he finally registered the questioning look on her face. That look brought him back to the present, reminded him of where they were. He coughed uncomfortably and stood up. "Well," he said slightly nervously, "looks like we have our homework. All wrapped up?"

Joan, a bit taken aback by his abrupt change in demeanor, nodded. "Yep," she managed, still looking at him strangely.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, but the silence was too much for Joan. Finally she asked, "what were you doing?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. He couldn't answer that, not here. But he couldn't deny his actions either. It was too late for that. Clearly she had noticed his attentions. Sherlock shook his head, glancing around furtively. "Not here," he said quietly.

Joan sighed. She wanted an explanation, and she wanted it now. But she also knew they couldn't talk honestly with each other until they were alone at home. "Fine," she huffed, slightly annoyed. "But you better explain yourself when we get home."

Sherlock grinned to hide his discomfort. He gestured for her to lead the way out. When their cab arrived outside, Sherlock opened Joan's door and held it for her. She gave him a little smile of thanks before glancing nervously back at the precinct building.

Sherlock didn't miss that glance. Leaning closer, Sherlock whispered in her ear, "it's okay Watson, no one saw. Besides," he added with a rueful grin, "holding your door is fairly benign. Even New York's finest would be hard-pressed to guess the truth of our relationship from such a small gesture."

"I hope you're right," Joan sighed as he closed her door and made his way around to his.

* * *

When they got home, Sherlock immediately made his way to the kitchen. He searched desperstely for something to do, his eyes landing on the stove. "Hungry?" He asked. "I'll fix something for us."

Joan saw right through him. She knew what he was trying to do. "No, Sherlock," she called from the hallway, "you're not getting away that easily." Sherlock smirked. He hadn't forgotten, he was dodging. But of course she wouldn't let him off the hook so easily.

"Answer my question," Joan said as she followed him into the kitchen. "What were you doing earlier?"

Caught in the act, Sherlock sighed. He leaned his back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest and looking to where Joan stood in the doorway. He sought for a way to explain his behavior at the station, and decided on the most simple one. With a shrug, he said, "watching you."

Joan rolled her eyes, making her way into the kitchen. She stopped when she was still a few paces in front of him. "I know _that_ ," she said, a tinge of annoyance in her voice. "I mean... You were looking at me differently," she said, her voice sounding lame even to herself.

Joan scrunched her face up. Sherlock recognized that as the face she made when she was confused. He resisted a smile.

Joan continued, "it was like you were... _examining_ me." This time he did smile. Joan saw his grin and threw her hands up. "I don't know," she huffed, "but it was different." Then, more quietly, she added, "you've never watched me like that before."

Sherlock's grin slowly disappeared, and he looked away, focusing his gaze on the floor. Joan grew even more confused. His face was drawn, and Joan recognized that as the face he made when he was deciding whether or not to admit something. She waited. Usually, if she stared at him and waited long enough, he'd tell her whatever it was he was holding back.

After a few moments, Joan's patience paid off. Sherlock glanced back up at her, but only met her eyes for a second before looking back down. Almost whispering, he said, "that's because I never allowed myself to."

There was an awkward moment of silence where Sherlock studied the floor as Joan studied him. She took a step closer, into his personal space. He noticed. Her closeness forced him to look back up at her.

"To do what?" She whispered.

"To watch you like that," Sherlock whispered back. "To really _see_ you. I wanted to, but I never let myself. Not..." he paused before finishing, "not before."

Joan's smile was indulgent as she asked, "why not?"

Sherlock gave another small shrug and averted his gaze again, growing more and more self-conscious by the minute. He wasn't accustomed to having to explain his feelings to anyone, and he decided he did not enjoy the experience. He said nothing.

Joan sensed his reservation, but she had to know. From past experience, Joan knew how much she could press him before he couldn't take it anymore. She knew she hadn't gone too far yet, and she desperately wanted to know.

Haltingly, she reached out and lightly lifted his chin with her fingertips, forcing him to look back to her. "Sherlock," she whispered. He couldn't avoid her gaze any longer. When their eyes met, she edged closer to him and ran her hand down his arm until it found his. Their fingers entwined, she whispered, "why not?"

Contrary to Sherlock's expectations, her closeness gave him comfort and courage. His gaze grew in intensity as he looked into her eyes. Finally, he said, "Because, Watson. I was afraid of where it might lead. I... I couldn't allow myself to really _see_ you." He paused, and Joan waited for him to go on. He did. "I couldn't enjoy the way you gesture with your arms when you talk. I couldn't revel in the look of tired pride in your eyes when we finish a case." His voice was speeding up. He was barely aware of his words anymore as his thoughts poured out. "I couldn't let myself watch the way your posture changes when you get defensive, or the way you stand up a little straighter when you talk to Gregson. I couldn't admire the way your hips swing when you walk," he absentmindedly moved his free hand to her hip, and Joan suppressed a sigh before he continued, "couldn't admire the way your hair glows, even in under the harsh fluorescents at the precinct, or the private smile you give only to me when we've finished a long case and it's time for us to come back home..."

He trailed off, taking a minute to examine her face. Her eyes were wide. She hadn't expected this revelation at all. A small smile was playing across her lips, but her expression mostly reflected surprise. Her eyes hadn't left his.

Still whispering, Sherlock continued, "I never allowed myself to indulge in noticing these things about you, because that would have gone beyond the bounds of our relationship. All of these things about you, they're..." he searched for the right word before settling on "intoxicating. And so I never let myself indulge in them for any length of time." With a slight grin, he added, "In fact, I did my very best to ignore them."

Joan was speechless. She opened her mouth, trying to think of something to say, but the right words escaped her. Abruptly, she closed it again, her eyes misting over slightly.

His grin turning into an indulgent smile, Sherlock moved his head closer to rest his forehead on hers. "But now," he breathed against her lips, "I can."

Joan let go of his hand and moved both of hers to the back of his neck. His released hand found a resting place on the small of her back, which he used to nudge her as close to him as possible. Again Joan reached for something to say, but no reply seemed adequate to acknowledge all he had just revealed to her

Instead, she met his eyes with a smile before closing her eyes and covering his mouth with hers. He kissed her back slowly, indulging in the feeling of her lips on his, her body against his. Running his hands along her waste and back, Sherlock added these new sensations to the list of things he had never let himself learn about her before.

When they eventually parted, they stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. Joan was worried she would cry, so she sought for humor. "You'd better be more careful next time," she said lightly, her voice still quiet. "If you keep looking at me like that, people are going to start asking questions."

Sherlock grinned. "Let them," he said before pulling her into another kiss.


	9. A Confession

Joan lay still, listening to the storm raging outside. She knew how much Sherlock hated these summer thunderstorms. The loud booms of the thunder and bright flashes of lightning assaulted his unnaturally keen senses, providing a constant and infuriating distraction. He could never get much work done during storms like this, and they always kept him awake. The noise and light also tended to bring him headaches, which only distracted and frustrated him even more.

Joan hated seeing the effects the storms had on him. It pained her to see him in pain. She knew how much he suffered when he was distracted, cut off from the part of himself he needed the most. It also bothered her when he didn't get enough sleep. That only led to him being more distracted the following day. Summer was a tough time for him, as these thunderstorms assaulted New York with awful regularity for the entire season.

Thankfully, after a week of near-constant storms and very little sleep on Sherlock's part, the two of them had made a mutually beneficial discovery. The storm had been really bad that night, causing him endless frustration. Plus the lack of sleep was tearing him down. He found himself wholly unable to accomplish anything. Just when Sherlock had been on the verge of losing his temper in anger at himself, Joan had been there. She'd comforted him, calmed him down, brought him back to reality. Staring into her eyes, Sherlock could almost block out the endless pain of the storm.

One thing had lead to another, and that night the two of them had discovered that Joan could provide him with a different sort of distraction - one which spoke to him even louder and more brightly than the storm. Sherlock found a shelter from the storm in her embrace. No one and nothing else could calm his inner storm and save him from the pain of the storm outside the way she did. And afterward, he was always able to sleep.

Tonight had been no different. Sherlock had fallen asleep over an hour ago, but Joan lay there with her head on his shoulder and her body moulded to his, unable to sleep.

There was too much on her mind tonight.

Each time the lightning flashed and lit up the room, Joan watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he lay sleeping next to her. She thought back to all the things he had said to her over the past month or so, all the confessions he had made and all the ways he had opened himself up to her and let her in. She thought about the note he had left her that started them on this journey, and all the things he had told her that night in the media room. And yet, throughout their young relationship, she'd said very little of consequence to him.

As she lay there, gently outlining the muscles of his chest with her finger, she let her mind wander back over the length of their relationship, both their long-term friendship and their relatively new romantic relationship. She thought about the person she had been before she had met him and how much she had changed since then. She mused over how different her life would have been if she'd never met him, or even if she had left at the end of her time as his sober companion and moved on. But as she thought back over this, she wondered most importantly why she'd never told him any of these things.

Perhaps due to the late hour and the isolating embrace of the storm, Joan felt her natural filter and reserved start to fall away. Before she thought better of it, all the words she felt the need to tell him started tumbling out.

"I meant it before when I told you that you've changed my life, you know," she whispered, turning her head slightly so she breathed the words right into his skin.

"I loved my job as a sober companion, I really did. I loved helping people get back to the person they wanted to be. But..." she sighed sleepily before going on, "It was never enough. The work didn't challenge me, not in the same way being a surgeon had. I was only really a part of myself. Whether I knew it or not, I wasn't living up to my potential, and a part of me was endlessly frustrated with myself. It felt like settling. But even so, I wasn't willing to take on anything more challenging."

Joan hesitated a moment, glancing up to his face to make sure he was still asleep. Reassured by the sight of his closed eyes in a momentary bright flash, she continued even more quietly. "I think I was afraid... Afraid that if I took on a more challenging job, I'd fail like..." her voice caught for a moment. "Like I did as a surgeon. I couldn't risk making a mistake like that again, so I settled for a less challenging job, even though I knew it wasn't wholly fulfilling for me."

With a sigh, Joan glanced over Sherlock's shoulders and watched the lighting outside the window while she thought back over the moment they had met. She realized now that meeting him had been the spark she had needed to make a change in her own life.

When she went on, her voice was a little brighter.

"But then I met you," she said, smiling into his shoulder. "And even when I was nothing more than your sober companion, you were a challenge. And when you invited me to be your partner, you never stopped challenging me." With a tiny laugh, she added, "you still do. What's more, you never let me stop challenging myself." She brushed his shoulder with her lips, lightly and briefly so as not to wake him, before continuing more seriously. "You inspired me, Sherlock. You made me see that I could do so much more if only I were willing to try. By letting me into your world, you brought back the part of me that I'd buried. The part that willingly seeks out challenges and doesn't stop until I've beaten them. The part that I was afraid to ever embrace again."

Lifting her head from his shoulder, Joan pushed herself up on her arms so she could look down at Sherlock's sleeping face. Every time the lighting flashed it lit up his face, and she smiled. Talking to his sleeping form, she went on. "I had buried a very important part of myself without even realizing it. You brought it back. You made me whole again." She studied his face in the flashing lights for a moment, smiling to herself.

Finally, her words spent, Joan let out a more contented sigh and laid her head back down to his shoulder. She laid on her side, facing him. She reached up to place a very light kiss on the underside of his jaw and whispered "I love you, Sherlock," before settling back down once again.

As she laid back down, Joan was surprised to feel Sherlock's arm tighten around her. Glancing up, she saw he'd turned his head toward her and opened his eyes a bit.

Surprise registered in her eyes, but before she could say anything, Sherlock whispered, "you challenge me too, Joan, and I'm better for it. I hope you know that. You've certainly brought back the man I wanted to be, but never quite could be. I wouldn't be, and never was, whole without you either." Dropping a soft kiss to the top of her head, he whispered, "I love you too," before closing his eyes once again.

Shock and embarrassment froze Joan momentarily. She had thought he'd been asleep, but he'd heard every word of her confession. She was a little angry at him for feigning sleep all that time instead of alerting her that he was awake, but her anger subsided quickly as his hand started stroking her arm and shoulder.

Perhaps, she thought, it was good that he had heard. She probably should have told him all of that, but she doubted she'd ever be able to admit that while looking him in the eye. Maybe this had worked out for the best.

Content, she snuggled up closer to his side. She idly wondered when he had started using her first name, but conscious thought left her when he rolled over and wrapped both his arms around her to pull her closer. Joan smiled into his chest, idly marveling at how lucky she was to have stumbled into his life.

Despite the storm still booming beyond the window, Joan felt her eyes get heavy. With the weight of all she had left unsaid finally lifted, it wasn't long until she drifted off to sleep.


End file.
